


Wound of Times Past

by ValmureEld



Series: Legend of the Sword Deserved Better So I'll Write it All Myself [3]
Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Bedivere feeling protective of Arthur, Bedivere remembering Uther, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excalibur, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Magical Injury, Missing Scene, The Darklands, The Mage and Bedivere working together sorta, Whump, Worry, fill in, painful memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11020218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValmureEld/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: Arthur didn't just see his father's death in the Darklands, he was forced to re-live it. That would have been horrible enough but this time he was the one holding Excalibur, so he was the one facing Vortigern on the docks during a foggy night. He was also the one taking the blows his uncle inflicted.





	Wound of Times Past

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the movie five times (not kidding) I think it's pretty plain that Arthur struggles through his father's death in a very visceral, physical way during his experience in the Darklands. I've had this fill-in idea in mind since my second viewing so I ventured to finally type it out.

There was far more in the Darklands than the engorged fauna, and both Bedivere and the Mage knew it.

“What if he doesn't come back?” Bedivere challenged, crossing his arms as he stopped pacing and leaned against one of the portal stones surrounding the place where their only hope had disappeared hours ago. “What are you going to tell everyone if you just lost the king _and_ the sword?”

The Mage gave him a side-eyed glance, her eyes narrowing. “If you believe this will be his death then he would not have survived Vortigern in the end, and all would have been lost anyway.”

Bedivere bristled at that. “He is more than a chess piece,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth before he realized he'd been thinking them. He'd tried to keep his memories of Uther buried in the middle of all this, to focus on the greater game, but it had become harder and harder. With every unconscious gesture and shadow that moved through Arthur's body Bedivere saw Uther breathing and alive again, and he had to blink away decades of memory to bring himself back to the present. Arthur may have gotten many of his physical attributes from his mother but he moved and sounded like his father.

“He is the king,” the Mage said simply. “As his father was before him and if you do not have faith in that and in the sword then you do not have faith in him.” She looked back into the circle where Arthur would, hopefully, reappear.

The knight looked away, crossing his arms and pulling his cloak tightly around him. The ache in his stomach did not diminish. “There had to have been another way.”

“There was no other way and you know it,” the Mage snapped, fixing him with her flinty eyes. “You would not have agreed to help me otherwise. He must go through this fire or be consumed by the one he has yet to face.”

Bedivere bit the inside of his cheek and stared at the ground, breathing out a huff that misted in the evening cool.

It was well past dawn when the circle began crackling again, the taste of sea air and a bitterness of smoke and magic permeating the gateway. Bedivere shot to attention, standing quickly with his heart pounding as he prayed that Arthur would be back in one piece at least.

The Mage got up more calmly, though her movements were quick as a fox and just as sharp. Arthur, haggard, beaten and just short of being actually conscious appeared in a flash of ozone and lightning, leaning on Excalibur hard like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Turns out that was exactly true, because seconds later he fell onto his back with a heavy finality that scared Bedivere far deeper down than he was prepared for. The Mage knelt quickly at his side, pressing her fingers to his throat to look for life.

“His heart beats strong,” she said, and for a moment Bedivere felt light headed. The Mage continued her inspection, leaning over him with an analytical eye and cupping his head between her hands, turning it to inspect the damage done to his right temple and eye. “He is quite injured, we will need to watch him closely.”

Bedivere pressed his lips together but knew his disapproval would do no good being voiced again. “I will carry him, if you think it is safe,” he said, kneeling at Arthur's other side, watching his unconscious body continue to breathe hard and deep, like he'd been thrown straight from a battle into oblivion.

“He looks as though he's been fighting for his life,” he added, side-eyeing the Mage.

“Because he was,” she said without dignifying him with a returned glance. She was busy undoing Arthur's coat and pulling his shirt aside, smoothing her fingers over the bruising and seeping cuts marking his abdomen. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she tilted her head, flinty eyes tracking everything out of place. Arthur's ribs were heavily bruised and his breathing had begun to slow, a low wheeze in the back of his chest worrying Bedivere greatly.

“Roll him onto his side, towards me,” the Mage beckoned, and Bedivere obeyed, turning Arthur with as much care as he possessed, one hand braced behind his head and neck so it would not fall against the stone. He was reminded for a jarring moment of the night of Arthur's birth, when Uther had allowed him to hold the infant and the same care had been needed.

The Mage pulled Arthur's shirt up higher, hesitating for only a moment before running her hand lightly along a strange, blackened mark seeping blood and fluid from just under Arthur's right arm. Bedivere's eyes went wide but he didn't let his grip on Arthur jostle or falter. “What is that?”

“A shadow wound,” the Mage replied, reaching into her pack and digging out a jar that she quickly unscrewed. She scooped a generous portion of a dusty grey paste into her hand and smoothed it over the injury. Arthur's brow furrowed and he tensed, a small cry escaping him even though he wasn't conscious. Bedivere held him still.

“And what is a shadow wound pray tell?” he demanded, unable to contain his anger anymore. It lit behind his eyes, fixed on the Mage. “It looks as though he took the blow from a blade that was white hot.”

“Shadow wounds result from facing that which is hidden and preserved in magic. He was not struck, but he did make it to the tower and he saw what happened all those years ago when Uther was slain.”

“Seeing would not leave him beaten half to death. What aren't you telling me?”

“He did not see alone, he lived in Uther's stead for a moment, feeling what Uther felt. Seeing what Uther saw. The injuries that took his father's life came through the magic to mark him in turn.”

Bedivere grabbed the Mage's wrist, stopping her cold. “What?? You knew this would happen!?”

She looked up sharply when he grabbed her, her expression dangerous and cold as steel. “It was the only way,” she snapped, pulling her wrist from his grip. “I did not know how strongly he might resonate with the memory but clearly he held nothing back. This salve will soothe the wounds and he will heal. Probably without so much as a scar, but if you prevent me from treating magically what his body thinks he suffered he will follow his father's fate.”

They stared each other down for a long moment, but Arthur shuddered oddly beneath them and Bedivere swallowed his fury, nodding curtly and working his jaw. “Fine, then give me some as well. There is a mark particularly bad on his back.”

The Mage nodded, handing some over as she leaned across Arthur's hip to see the damage herself. “That was the fatal blow,” she said, smoothing her fingers against Bedivere's to leave more than half the jar's contents on his hand. “You will need to be thorough,” she warned. “I will keep him grounded until you can finish. Disturbing the wound without treating it completely will awaken his body to the trauma and it could prove fatal.”

Bedivere hesitated for only a heartbeat before he smeared his fingers across Arthur's back, dipping far as he dared into the slash of a phantom scythe wound. The Mage went back to Arthur's head, cradling it and muttering incantations, stroking her thumbs across his temple in a calculated motion. All at once Arthur gave a ragged gasp, his eyes flying open though they were blank, filled instead with Excalibur's eerie light. In the dirt and wet leaves, Excalibur flared.

“Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon,” the Mage said clearly, forcing Arthur's enchanted stare up at her. He choked and his body shuddered, and Bedivere worked faster, his heart hammering panic. He knew those sounds. Those convulsions. Death throws were a horrible thing to witness and impossible to forget.

“I forbid you to follow the path unto death,” the Mage continued, bending her head so close to Arthur's that their foreheads nearly touched. “I forbid you to depart this land. You are alive. You must stay alive. Fight this,” she said, giving him a little shake. Something that glowed bright like the sword's runes drooled from the side of his mouth and his eyelids fluttered. “Arthur, son of Uther, stay with me. Stay with me and fight.”

Bedivere worked the last of the magical ointment as far into the wound as he could, finding with a flood of cold relief that his fingers couldn't reach as deep and the black, sooty nature of the wound was fading. Arthur's whole body was rigid and sweat glistened but after a few horrible moments he fell limp again, his breath rushing out of him in a huff as his head fell back. The Mage caught it, watching intently as his eyes fluttered shut and the light inside them died. It was only after Arthur drew another breath that Bedivere realized with a detached horror that the mark in Arthur's back didn't match the stabbing wound of a scythe, but rather the exact width of Excalibur's shining blade.

“He is out of danger,” the Mage said after a few moments, and Bedivere had to get up with an unsteady body and lean against one of the rocks, shaken by the pieces that he'd just put together. He swallowed dryly, watching as the Mage began pulling out bandages and other tools to bind Arthur's more traditional wounds.

“I hope this was worth it,” he breathed, shaking his head and wiping away sweat with a trembling hand before retrieving Excalibur and sliding it soundly back into its sheath. He strapped it to his back so he wouldn't have to look at it and knelt at the Mage's side once more to help her bundle Arthur up enough that he could be taken back to the boat.

When she deemed him stable, Bedivere hefted Arthur across his shoulders and stood, bearing his king's son back to safety. He knew with a bitter heart that safety was only temporary.

 _Forgive me, Uther_ , he thought, Arthur's breath warm against his cheek as he trekked on. Pressed hard against his shoulder, he could feel Arthur's heart beating, and the stakes in his mind only grew.

_Forgive me._

**Author's Note:**

> I find myself going back again and again to what it must be like for Bedivere and William to be following the young man that they knew as a baby, fully aware that he may not survive. 
> 
> Side note, spelling for Vortigern was taken from the King Arthur IMDB. There seem to be a lot of spelling variations. 
> 
> I'm open to requests/prompts for more Arthur fic. I'm pretty determined to keep on writing for these characters.


End file.
